


Everybody Comes to Erik’s

by readercat



Category: Casablanca (1942), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:18:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readercat/pseuds/readercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Casablanca, XMFC-style.</p>
<p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The title is from the unpublished play Everybody Comes to Rick’s, basis for the movie Casablanca (which I love fiercely). After seeing XMFC and Casablanca in the same week, I couldn’t help but see Erik as Rick and Charles as Ilsa (and Louie--James McAvoy could be Claude Raines’ bastard child). Then, I find out that Bogie loved chess and had worked it into his character, Rick (during filming, he and a friend were even carrying on a game by correspondence--the acutal chess board can be seen in “Rick‘s“ office).
> 
> It’s too perfect. Rick: miserable, angry, gun-running, chess-playing ex-pat becomes Erik; Ilsa: the suffering, doe-eyed heroine (burdened by secrets, sacrificing love for the greater good) becomes Charles. We have war; we have intrigue; we have lover/friends separated by seemingly insurmountable differences: throw in Nazis and chess, and what else is there to do? The story practically writes itself…  
> While I crib heavily (and I do mean HEAVILY) from Casablanca, I own nothing --this is for entertainment only.

The Players (in parenthesis are the characters represented by our XMFC cast):

 

Erik Lensherr (Rick Blaine)

Charles Xavier (Ilsa Lund)

Moira (Victor Laszlo)

*Wesley Gibson (Capt. Louie Renault)

Sebastian Shaw, aka Max Schmidt (Maj. Heinrich Strasser)

Alex (Sam)

Hank (Sasha)

Azazael (Signor Ferrari)

Emma (Ugarte)

Janos (Carl)

Raven (Yvonne)

Angel (Annain)

Sean (Jan)

Darwin (Berger)

 *Note: As Charles can’t be Ilsa _and_ Louie, to keep my vision intact, Wesley Gibson will be filling in as Louie (plus, I’ve got a total girl-boner for Wes).

 

 

1941 _Casablanca, French Morocco, Northern Africa_

 

　

With much of Europe occupied by German forces, it was getting harder and harder for those fleeing the Nazi regime to make their way to neutral Lisbon, from where they could obtain safe passage to the Americas. The Reich now required a letter of transit for those traveling through German-occupied areas. Those fleeing the Gestapo were now forced to take a ‘more circuitous’ route: from Paris to Marseilles, then across the Mediterranean and the rim of northern Africa to Oran, and finally to the town Casablanca in French Morocco. From there, those able to pay the price could obtain an exit visa and travel on to Lisbon. As for the others, they could only wait…and wait…and wait…and wait…

 

　

\--

Attention! Attention! _We have just received word that two German couriers, carrying letters of transit were murdered on a train from Oran. The suspect is in possession of the letters and is believed to be enroute to the town of Casablanca. Round up all suspicious characters and search them for documents._ Important!--

 

　

Erik’s Café Americain was the most popular nightclub in Casablanca--and he intended to keep it that way, Erik Lensherr thought to himself as left his office.  Lighting a cigarette, he went downstairs to check out how business was doing tonight. He took pride in running a very successful business and as the manager, as well as owner, he liked to run a tight ship.  Tonight, in particular, he wanted to visit the casino--the one so kindly overlooked by Capt. Gibson (in exchange for a hefty bribe and unlimited privileges, naturally).  There had been a couple of big wins recently and Erik wanted to make sure that the equipment was working properly.

It was one thing to have a big win every once in a while--otherwise people might get the idea that the equipment was rigged (they would be right, of course)--but too many wins, and you start to lose money. And Erik was all about the money. It’s not like he had anything, _anyone_ else, not since Cha-- _No! We don’t think about him--never! That_ was a lie of course. _He_ was never truly far away from Erik’s thoughts. Erik viciously stabbed his cigarette into an ashtray, took a deep breath, ran his hands over his short brown hair, straightend his jacket, and shoved the pain back into its cage to deal with later ( _never_ ).

 

Entering the casino, he immediately runs into one of his least favorite people, Emma Frost. For all that she was tall, blonde and beautiful, she left him cold--probably the fact she dealt in human trafficking. Still he manages to flash a polite smile (she is still a customer, after all). “Mademoiselle Frost.”

“Erik, so good to see you! And how many times have I told you to call me Emma?” she says. Somewhere along the line, in spite of his complete disinterest, she had gotten the mistaken impression that they were friends. “I was hoping to find you here. I would like speak to you for a moment, if I may?” Fortunately, one of his croupiers signals for him, giving him a chance to make his escape.

“I’m afraid not, Mademoiselle Frost. I have business to attend to at the moment, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Of course. Perhaps later, then?”

“Of course.“ _Not if I can help it, he thinks._

 

“What seems to be the problem, Jacques?”

“This man is demanding to be let into the casino. He says that he’s the President of the German National Bank--” He was interrupted by a thin, rat-faced man in a tuxedo, waving a voucher, “I have been in every casino in Europe! I will not be denied entry to this, this _…saloon_!”

Erik looks at the man's voucher and tears up.  “Your cash is good at the bar.”

“What?! Do you know who I am!?”

“I do. You’re lucky the bar’s open to you,” Erik says as he slams the door in the man’s face.

 

After confirming that all was well in the casino--equipment was fine, it was just one of those things--Erik wanders back out to the main room of the club. He could tell from the excited buzz of crowd that this was going to be a good night. He is annoyed to find that Frost has followed him out of the casino and is still trying to engage him in conversation. “Heh, you know, watching you just now with the Deutsche Bank official, one would think that you’ve been doing this all of your life.”

“Oh, and what makes you think I haven’t?” Erik says coolly.

“Oh, n-n-nothing," she says stammers a bit, "but when you first came to Casablanca, I thought…”

“You thought what?” Erik suddenly sounds very dangerous.

Emma pales and laughs nervously, “Ah, what right go I have to think, eh?”

Erik just ignores her, hoping that she’ll go away.

“You don’t like me very much do you, Erik?” Frost suddenly asks.

“I suppose if I gave you much thought, I wouldn’t,” he says dismissively.

“It’s because of how I make my living, no doubt… Just think of all the poor devils who can’t meet Gibson’s price for exit visas. I get it for them for half--is that so… _parasitic_?”

“Oh, I don’t mind a parasite," Erik says, looking directly into her eyes.  "Just a cut-rate one.”

Frost looks almost hurt for a moment, then smiles brightly saying, “Well after tonight, I will be through with the whole business and finally leaving Casablanca.”

Erik snorts. “Who did you bribe for your exit visa--Gibson or yourself?”

She laughs. “Myself, of course. I find myself _much_ more reasonable.” She looks around furtively, then leans forward and says quietly to Erik, “I have something to show you,” and pulls some papers from her clutch. “Do you know what these are?”

Erik somehow manages to hide his shock.  It isn't easy.  “They appear to be unsigned letters of transit.”

Emma looks delighted, crafty, but delighted.  “Yes! They are indeed. And tonight, I will be selling them for enough money that I can leave Casablanca forever and go anywhere in the world.” She looks at Erik, serious now, and says, “You know, Monsieur Erik, I have many friends in Casablanca, but somehow just because you despise me, you are the only one I trust. I need to ask a favor of you.”

Erik narrows his eyes, feeling a curl dread in the pit of his stomach, “What do you want?”

“I need for you to hide the letters for me. Just for a couple of hours. The police are doing searches, and I can’t risk being caught with them on me.”

Erik takes a deep breath and lets out a long sigh--he knew he was going to regret this--and takes the papers from her. “Alright, Frost. Just for a couple of hours, though. I don’t want them here in my place overnight. I mean it.”

“Thank you”. She pauses as she gathers her things, “I would like to think that you are little more impressed with me now, Erik.” She smiles then, saying. “So…now I think that I shall try my luck at the roulette table.”

As she starts to walk away, Erik calls out to her, “Mademoiselle Frost."

She turns back to him, "Yes...?"

Gazing at her speculatively, he says casually, "I heard a rumor that those two murdered German couriers were carrying letters of transit.”

Emma gives him a look that’s far too innocent. “Oh, yes…I heard that rumor, as well. Poor devils.”

Turning to walk away, Erik says, “If that’s true, Frost, you’re right--I am a little more impressed with you.”

 

　

Erik stops by Alex’s piano to see how things were going with the entertainment. Alex’s piano playing was one of the major draws of the club. “How’s it going this evening, Alex?”, he asked--as he tried to tell himself that he didn’t feel guilty as he slipped the letters of transit into Alex’s piano for safe-keeping.

“Everything’s going great Mr. Erik! We’ve got some new numbers that are really going over with the crowd and that new singer has sure been a hit.”

“Excellent! You know sometimes I can’t believe I own this place.”

“Well, boss, you do have a knack for running a club. If you recall, La Belle Aurora was pretty successful, too. If it weren’t for those damn Nazis--pardon my French--over-running Paris, it would still be the most popular club around.”

Erik’s gut twisted at the mention of Paris and La Belle Aurora ( _him,_ again) but he smiled at Alex, “I didn’t do it by myself Alex. You’ve been there with me whole way _(unlike some people--_ dammit _, stop thinking about him!)._ You’re as much responsible for the success of this club as I am. When are you ever going to take me up on that offer of a partnership?”

Alex gave Erik a half-smile and serious eyes, “Erik. I appreciate the offer--I do. But I’m just a piano player. This gig, working with you is more than I ever thought I’d have. I’m content with what I’ve got: a job I love, doing what I love and good friends. What more could I ask for? Honestly, what more could I _want_?”

Erik sighs, “If you’re sure…”

“I am.”

“But you know I’m just going to ask again, don’t you?”

Alex bursts out laughing, “I never doubted for a minute, boss.”

 

Winding his way back across the room towards the bar, Erik’s nose is assaulted by a waft of cheap French perfume and he catches a glimpse of bright blue dress out of the corner of his eye. “Erik!“ _Raven. Scheisse._ He panics slightly and tries to escape before she can grab him. “Erik! There you are!“ _No such luck. Why did he ever take her out?_

He steels himself for the scene he knows she's going to cause.  “Raven.”

“Erik, darling! I’ve been trying to find you. Where were you last night?” she pouts.

“That’s so long ago I don’t remember.” _Mien Gott. She’s drunk. Again. Just ignore her._

Raven’s pout turns to a frown, “Will I see you tonight?”

“I never make plans that far ahead.” _Just ignore her. Don‘t look at her. You can’t see me._

Raven starts getting mad and slams her hand down on the bar, “Fine, then! Hank, give me another drink!”

Erik takes the glass away.“She’s had enough.”

“I said I want a drink!”

“I’m sorry, darling. You know I love you--but he pays me,” Hank shrugs, pointing at Erik.

Erik grabs Raven by the arm, “Time for you to go home, Raven. Sleep it off.”

She slaps at his hands. “Who do you think you are!? You can’t treat me this way!”

Ignoring her curses, he shoves her at Hank, telling him, “Get a cab and make sure she gets home.”

Hank grins, “You got it, boss!”

“And Hank...?  Come straight back,” Erik warns.

Hanks face falls and he sighs, “Yes, boss.”

 

Erik turns around to find Capt. Gibson giving him a look that part amused, part sad--though mostly amused. Then again, Wesley usually _was_ amused, and usually at Erik’s expense.

“Hello, Erik.”

“Wesley.”

“How extravagant you are, throwing away women like that. Someday they may be scarce. You know, now I think I shall pay a call on Raven. Maybe get her on the rebound, yeah?

“When it comes to women, Wesley, you're a true democrat.”

Wesley just does that Gallic shrug thing and smiles. Erik hates him a little because that smile looks so much like _him_ that it makes his chest ache. Fortunately, Wesley’s personality is so radically different that most of the time he hardly notices the resemblance anymore--and he absolutely _does NOT_ find the French accent sexy, _at all_. Or the police uniform. _He doesn’t._ No, Erik just quietly suffers the personal hell of his closest ‘friend’ being very nearly identical in looks to the man who broke his heart. Yet, more proof that God must truly hate him.

He finally looks over to see Wesley grinning like the cat that got the canary. “Well! I’ve got some exciting news, Erik! We are going to be making an arrest in your club tonight.”

“Oh?” Erik tries to keep his panic from showing on his face.

“Oh, yes! The suspect wanted for the murder those German couriers is here in Casablanca and will be here tonight. Maj. Max Schmidt of the Third Reich will be arriving shortly to oversee the festivities. And Erik, If you know who has those papers--don‘t think about warning them.”

“Why would I do that? I stick my neck out for _nobody_!”   _Ach, Schiesse!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik and Capt. Gibson discuss the new arrivals in Casablanca, while Erik has a private nervous breakdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short
> 
> In canon, I believe that Moira is Scottish (maiden name being Kinross)--I left her like, but making her Jewish on her mother's side of the family, for the purposes of this story.

Chapter 2

 

     Erik tries to hide his anxiety about the impending visit from the Nazi officials--as a Jew, he knows he‘s walking a thin line. There can be no Letter of Transit, no Exit Visa for Erik Lensherr if things go south. Being _persona non grata_ in America, he can’t look there for asylum--not like the others here…not with his record. He’ll have to tread carefully unless he wishes to wind up in the nearest concentration camp.

     Wesley has continued talking, as is his wont, following him back inside the club, “We could have made the arrest this afternoon at the Blue Parrot, but because of my regard for you, I decided to stage it here, in your club.”

     “Thank you, Captain Gibson,” Erik says, not bothering to disguise his sarcasm. “Just what I need--Nazis.”

     Caught up in the wave of impending excitement, Wesley either doesn’t hear, or simply ignores him, “Oh, yes, Erik--things are about to get _very_ exciting here in Casablanca, for a change. We will also be having another very special guest here tonight. In addition to Major Schmidt, Moira MacTaggart has arrived in Casablanca, as well.”

      Erik looks at him in surprise, “ _Moira MacTaggart!?”_

     “Why, Erik, I’ve never seen you so impressed!”

     “She has succeeded in impressing half the world. Why would she come here? The Nazi’s have been chasing her all over Europe. I figured she would get as far away from them as possible after escaping that concentration camp, not run straight to them. Though I suppose she was clever enough to escape them the first time…”

     “No matter how clever Ms. MacTaggart is, she still needs an exit visa…or should I say _two_ exit visas?

     “Why _two_?” Erik has a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Damn, that Emma Frost!

     “It seems that she is traveling with a gentleman.”

     Erik snorts dismissively, “She’ll take one.”

     Wesley raises an eyebrow and gives a sly smile, “Oh, I think not, Erik--I have seen the man.”

     Once again, Erik looks at Wesley in surprise, “Not just a democrat when it come to women, then? You might wish to keep that bit of information from your Nazi friends, lest _you_ wind up in a concentration camp.”

     Wesley merely shrugs and gives Erik a smile and a look that makes his knees weak (he really does hate Wesley sometimes), “All I am saying is that the man is _very_ handsome. If she did not leave him behind in Marseilles, she will not leave him behind here.”

     “Care to make a wager on that, Wesley?”

     “A wager?” Wesley looks intrigued.

     “My casino just lost 20,000 francs, I’d like to get it back.”

     “Why don’t we make it 10,000 francs?” Wesley smiles, “After all, I’m only a _poor_ corrupt official.”

     They enter the club and sit down at a table, Wesley orders a glass of wine and leans back in his chair to study Erik, “You know, Erik. Underneath your tough exterior, I suspect hides the heart of a rank sentimentalist.“

     “Do tell.” Erik says, giving Wesley a ’leave it alone’ look--which Wesley of course ignores.

     “Oh, yes. I _do_ know a little bit about your history, you know. For example, I know that in 1935 you ran guns to Ethiopia and that you later fought in Spain on the side of the Loyalists.”

     “And was well paid for it on both occasions.” Erik points out.

     “The winning side would have paid more,” Wesley responds.

     Erik ignores him. Wesley takes it as a victory. “So tell me, Erik…” he continues, “I’ve often speculated as to why you don’t return to America. What did you do? Abscond with the church funds? Run off with a senator’s wife?” He leans forward, resting his chin in his hand, “I like to think you killed a man.” He smiles crookedly, adding, “It’s the Romantic in me.”

     “It was a combination of all three,” Erik says, deadpan.

     “Excellent! You’ve managed to fulfill all of my expectations!” Wesley laughs delightedly and takes his leave, “Well, I must get back to the prefect office. It wouldn’t do to look like I’m slacking off in front of the Germans.”

     “Perhaps if you actually did some work upon occasion, Captain Gibson, it might not look as if you were slacking off all of the time.“

     He shrugs apologetically, “That is true, _mon ami_. But then, I _am_ a Frenchman--I cannot help myself.”

     “Yes, well I _can_ \--and I need to get back to running my saloon.”

     “I shall see you later tonight, Erik.”

     “Wesley.”

 

     Alone at last, Erik paces around his office (his haven, his hiding place), tension and anxiety rolling off of him in waves. He desperately tries to ignore the chess board sitting in the corner, covered in a layer of dust--the pieces frozen in a game that will forever remain unfinished ( _No, not now--can‘t think about_ him _now_ ). He runs his hands through his hair distractedly. _What is he going to do?_ If the Nazis find those letters in his club or if they arrest Frost and she gives him up… _oh, god_ … It’s looking more and more certain that a one-way, all expenses paid train-ride to Auschwitz is in Erik Lehnsherr‘s immediate future.  He has to pull himself together.  He can't afford to appear weak--his life depends on it.

     Erik smoothes down his hair, straightens his jacket and bow-tie, takes a deep breath...and with a last lingering look at the chess board, heads back downstairs to face what comes.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik calms down. Azazael offers to buy his club. Major Schmidt arrives. Emma gets arrested.

     Back in control of himself, Erik walks around the club, keeping an eye on everything. He listens with amusement as he hears Janos patiently telling a group of customers, yet again, that Erik does not drink with the customers.

      “Why is the saloon-keeper so stuck-up?” One woman asks, offended.

      “Yes, he’s certainly not very friendly!” says another.

      An older man speaks up, “Perhaps if you were to inform him that I am the head of the second largest bank in Amsterdam…?”

      At this, Janos laughs, saying, “Oh, that would not impress Monsieur Erik! The leading banker in Amsterdam is working in our kitchen as the pastry chef!” He leans into the group and says conspiratorially, “And his father is our bellboy!”

      As the rest of the table erupts in laughter, the banker says, sourly, “Oh, good. We have something to look forward to…”

 

      As Alex and his band are finishing up another number, Erik spots Azazael coming into the bar, and sighs. _Here we go again_.

      Azazael is the owner of the Blue Parrot (the second most popular club in Casablanca-- _and not even a close second_ , Erik thinks in vicious satisfaction). He comes in _at least_ once a day with an offer to buy Erik’s club--and always for much less than it’s worth, too--or to try to get Erik involved in the black market trade, which in Casablanca, usually means human trafficking. _Thank you, but no._

      Azazael waits until Alex’s set is done, then walks over to Erik, “Monsieur Erik! How are you doing this fine day?”

      “Azazael.”

      “Erik, I would like to purchase your club.”

      “It’s not for sale.”

      “I will double my previous offer.”

      “It’s not for sale at any price.”

      “What about Alex, then? What would you take for him?”

      Erik gives him a cold look. “I’m not in the habit of buying and selling human beings,” he says.

      “Human beings are the main commodity in Casablanca, Monsieur Erik. You are missing out. You know, Erik, you could really benefit from getting involved in the black market with me. So much money to be had, so many opportunities.”

      “How about you run your business, Azazael, and I’ll run mine? Besides, Alex won‘t leave.”

      “How do you know, Erik? Anyone can be had for a price. Why don’t we ask him?”

      “Why don’t we?” he leads Azazael over the piano player.

      Alex looks up at their approach and smiles, “Boss! How’s it going?”

      Erik leans up against the piano and says, “Alex? Azazael here wants you to come work for him at the Blue Parrot.”

      “Oh no, Boss,” Alex says. “I like it just fine here.”

      “He’ll pay you twice what I do.”

      Alex chuckles and smiles wider. “I don’t have time to spend the money I make here.”

      Erik looks at Azazael and shrugs _‘see, I told you so’_.

      Azazael smiles good-naturedly and touches the brim of his hat, excusing himself--all of them knowing that he will be back tomorrow.

 

**Later that evening…**

 

      Wesley comes striding into the club and informs Janos that Major Max Schmidt has arrived. “Make sure you give your best table. One near the ladies.”

      Janos just shrugs, saying, “I have already given him the best--knowing that he is German and would just take it anyway.”

      Wesley gives him a dour look, then turns to his officers. “Make sure we have two guards at every door,” he says as he goes to greet Major Schmidt.

     “Major! How are you? You are in for a very entertaining evening, I must say.” He lowers his voice at bit, “We’re just about to make our arrest.” He nods in the direction of Emma Frost, who is still at the roulette table. “Watch.”

 

      Two of the French officers walk up to Emma. “Mademoiselle Frost?”

      She looks up, startled and fear ghosts over her face, before she quickly schools her expression into one of bored amusement. “Yes? May I help you?”

      “Mademoiselle Frost, you need to come with us please.”

      “Of course.” She gathers her things. “May I cash in my chips first?” she asks casually.

      They agree and follow her to the cashier. “Two thousand francs, Mademoiselle.” The cashier hands her the money.

      Emma pretends to count the bills as she walks with the officers, but as she nears the door, she bolts. She runs, slamming the heavy wooden door behind her, trying to hold it closed as the officers shout at her to halt. She draws the gun she has hidden in her purse and begins firing, running again, as the officer wrench open the door, firing back at her.

      Hearing the shots, Erik runs into the hall (not the smartest move, thinking back on it) only to have a terrified Emma Frost run into his arms, babbling wildly.

      “Erik!  Erik, please!  You have to help me! Please, Erik!  Save me!  Don't let them take me!”

      He can hear the pounding footsteps and shouts as the officers round the corner. It’s too late. They arrest Emma.  They take her away, still screaming for Erik to help her. 

      All he can do is watch.

      “Alright, everyone!  Show’s over!” he calls out, turning to his customers. “Sorry for the disturbance, ladies and gentlemen. Go back to enjoying your evening.”

      “Well, Erik,” one of his patron says cuttingly, “I certainly hope that if they ever come for me, you’d be a little more sympathetic.”

      “I stick my neck out for nobody,” Erik says, looking in the direction they took Emma--not letting them see that the look in his eyes doesn’t match his cold words.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik tries to think up and escape plan, learns that Capt. Gibson isn't as blase' as he seems, and Erik finally gets introduced to Major Schmidt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short

 

     With the excitement over Emma’s arrest finally dying down a bit, Erik slowly winds his way back through the club, trying to calm down and working valiantly to keep his usual mask of world-weary indifference in place. He is both furiously angry and sick with dread. It’s a miracle that Frost didn’t give him up to the French authorities on the spot. He supposes that she knows it wouldn’t have saved her in the end, but then again, she probably wasn’t thinking about Erik being a Jew at the time. Now that she’s in custody, she’ll have time to think. The way he figures, he’ll have at the most, but a few hours before they come for him and he‘s got nowhere left to run. He can’t go back to his adopted country of America and he certainly can’t go back to Germany, the country of his birth. What on earth possessed him to let Emma Frost keep those letters here!? It’s not like he has just himself to worry about now. What if they accuse Alex of hiding the letters--after all, they are in his piano. They‘ll never believe that he wasn‘t involved, no matter if Erik confesses to holding the letters for Emma.

     And that idiot, Wesley! Bringing _Nazis_ into Erik’s club?! And _Schmidt_ of all people (he uses the term _‘people’_ loosely when referring to Nazis). Major Schmidt was well known for his efficiency in dealing with the ‘Jewish Problem’. No doubt he was slavering at the mouth to get his hands on Moira MacTaggart. She’d slipped through his clutches no less than three times--once even faking her death and escaping a concentration camp. She kept the Resistance going and made the Reich look like fools. Erik could love her for that if his heart wasn‘t dead. He runs his hands through his hair in frustration. What was Wesley thinking, bringing Nazis here?

     And as if conjured from Erik’s thoughts, he hears Capt. Gibson call to him over the noise of the crowd. Wesley spies Erik and, smiling broadly, blue eyes shining with excitement, waves him over to his table. “Monsieur Erik! Come, meet Major Schmidt!”

     Why Wesley thinks that Erik would even want to be on the same planet as a Nazi, much less, shake hands with one, is an utter mystery to Erik. All the same, unable to resist those damned eyes, he makes his way over to Wesley. He inclines his head at Wesley, barely hiding his revulsion at being in the presence of the Nazi scum sharing his table. “Captain Gibson.”

     Wesley jumps up to greet him and for the first time Erik sees a hint of anxiety in the subtle tension of his body. Probably no one but Erik would even notice it. “Erik! I was just talking to Major Schmidt about you, about how you cooperated with us in apprehending Mademoiselle Frost for the murder of those two couriers.” Wesley’s usual lazy smile is gracing his face, but his eyes are saying, _’Play along. Your life depends on it.’_

     Wesley is afraid for Erik. Perhaps too late remembering that Nazis and Jews don’t get along--or perhaps something worse. Erik has never seen Wesley afraid of anything, and seeing him like this now is almost more frightening than the presence of the Nazis themselves--who are staring at Erik with the combination of avid curiosity and mild distaste that one would reserve for an animal which had done an impressive but unsettlingly human trick. In spite of Wesley’s fear for him, Erik can’t help but look back at them with undisguised contempt, especially at the tall, thin Nazi with the piercing, soulless eyes. Major Schmidt. Erik locks eyes with Schmidt and holds out his hand just to see if Schmidt flinches.  "How do you do?  I'm Erik Lehnsherr," he says.  ‘ _Let the games begin, you Nazi bastard_ ,’ he thinks, and lets the corner of his mouth curl up in derision.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Nazis question Erik, Moira MacTaggart has arrived in Casablanca, and Erik finally comes face to face with Charles.

Chapter 5

 

　

     “Herr Lehnsherr,” Major Schmidt says, inclining his head. Erik notices with both contempt and relief that the major does not offer to shake hands.  _No doubt wishing to avoid touching the dirty Jew_ , Erik thinks.  Of course, he would never consider that Erik has even _less_ desire to touched by a filthy Nazi.  “Won’t you join us, please?”  Schmidt asks, making it clear to Erik that it is not a request.

     Erik is ready to throw them out of his club, but seeing Wesley’s damned pleading eyes, relents.  “Major Schmidt, welcome to Casablanca and to _Erik‘s_ ,” his voice clearly indicating that the Nazi is anything _but_ welcome.  Still, he can practically _feel_ the relief emanating from Wesley at the capitulation on Erik‘s part.  “Please have a drink,” he says, waving Janos over to take their orders.

　

     Erik is still sitting at the table with the Nazi officials, and as they drone on _and on_ about the glory of the Third Reich, he daydreams about killing them.  It’s only the amusement of his slightly less violent fantasy of punching Wesley’s teeth out that keeps him from actually acting on his desire to kill Schmidt.

     Wesley has been expounding on something completely uninteresting to Erik and he only tunes back in when he hears his club mentioned, “…everything at _Erik’s_ is above board.  Monsieur Erik is very particular in regards to his club.  We’ve had no problems with him, whatsoever.”

_Don’t lay it on_ too _thick, Wesley._ “Yes, I’m glad to cooperate with the authorities here in Casablanca,” Erik says, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

     Major Schmidt addresses him, “Herr Lehnsherr.  You seem to have made quite a name for yourself in certain circles.  We, of course, have a complete dossier on you.”  He pulls out a folder and reads: “…Erik Lehnsherr, alias Max Eisenhardt.  Age 37.  German or Polish by birth--it’s a little unclear.  Unable to return to your adopted country of America…though the reason is a little vague.  We also know what you did in Paris, Herr Lehnsherr, and also we know why you left Paris.”  He slides a folder over to Erik, with a smirk.  “Don't worry, we are not going to broadcast it.”

     Erik looks at the contents of the folder, keeping his face impassive, disinterested--even as his insides are churning with fear.  “Are my eyes really blue?”  he asks, managing to sound mildly bored.

 

     As the Nazis continue to press him, Capt. Heinz asks,  “Are you one of those people who cannot imagine the Germans in their beloved Paris?”

     “It’s not particularly my beloved Paris,’ Erik replies.  
     “Can you imagine us in London?” Major Schmidt then asks.  
     “When you get there, ask me.”

     “See, a Diplomatist!” Wesley chuckles.

     “How about New York?” Major Schmidt presses.

     Erik smirks, “Well there are certain sections of New York, Major, that I wouldn't advise you to try to invade.”

     Schmidt gives him a sour look.

     Erik has had all he can take and jumps up, “If you'll excuse me, gentlemen.  Your business is politics, mine is running a saloon.”

      As Erik walks away, Major Schmidt sniffs dismissively and says to Capt. Gibson, “You give him credit for too much cleverness.  My impression was that he's just another blundering American expatriate.”  
     “We mustn’t underestimate American ‘blundering’," Wesley says dryly, “If I recall correctly they ‘blundered’ into Berlin in 1918.”

 

  
     After Erik has dealt with the Nazi officials, he retreats to his office to try and relax for a few minutes.  While he is away from the bar, the doors to the club open and a gorgeous, well-dressed couple walks in:  a woman with dark hair and eyes, and a man with dark hair and bright blue eyes.  Both the man and woman are lovely to look at, but it is the man that initially turns everyone’s heads--mostly because of his startling resemblance to Casablanca’s police prefect, Louis Renault.  Then as they notice the woman there are muffled gasps and everyone begins talking in hushed whispers as they recognize her:  Moira MacTaggart, public enemy number one to the Third Reich.

     As they are seated, the man and Alex spot each other, and both men turn pale.  “What’s wrong Charles?” Moira asks.

     “N-Nothing. Nothing, dear.”  He smiles at Moira and gives their drink orders to Janos.

     While they wait for their drinks, a man comes over to their table and introduces himself, asking them if they would be interested in buying his gold ring.  They keep telling him that they aren’t interested.  “I‘m sorry, Monsieur Darwin, it’s a lovely ring, but we‘re not interested right now.  If you will excuse us, we’re waiting for a friend.  She‘s just running a bit late.”

     Darwin gives them a grave look and speaks quietly, making it look as though he is still showing them the ring, “If your ‘friend’ is Mademoiselle Frost, she’s not going to be able to help you.  She can’t even help herself right now.”

     Moira and Charles look at each other, alarmed.  “What do you mean?!”

     “Mademoiselle Frost was arrested in this club not more than an hour ago for the murders of some German couriers.”

     “Who are you!?”  Moira asks, fear and suspicion in her voice.

     Darwin glances around cautiously then flips open a compartment on the ring, revealing a symbol--the symbol of the French Resistance.  “Are you certain that you’re not interested in purchasing the ring, Madame?”

     Suddenly, Moira is _very_ interested in the ring.  “On second thought, that _is_ a lovely ring.  Why don’t you walk to the bar with me and we can discuss a price.”  She turns to Charles, “I’ll be right back, darling.”

 

　

　

     As Moira walks off with Darwin, Janos returns with their drinks.  “Here you are, sir.  Two champagne cocktails.”  He turns to walk away and Charles stops him.  “Excuse me…would you mind asking the piano player to come over here?”

     “Of course, sir.”

     A few minutes later, Alex rolls his piano over to their table.  He is fumbling around nervously and won’t look at Charles.  “You wanted me to play something for you, sir?”

     “Hello, Alex.  Don’t you remember me?”

     “Yes, Mr. Charles, I remember you.”  Though his voice is polite, he makes it clear that he does not remember Charles fondly.

     “How you been Alex?”  Charles asks cautiously.

     “I’ve been just fine, Mr. Charles.”

     “How is Erik?”

     “He’s just fine.  I’m fine.  We’re both fine.  Everyone‘s fine.”  He turns his attention to the sheet music in front of him.  “What would you like to hear?”

     Charles looks down at his hands, then looks up at Alex and smiles softly, then glances back down at his hands.  “Play it once, Alex.  For old time’s sake.”  
     Alex won‘t look at him.  “I don't know what you mean, Mr. Charles.”  
     Charles looks at him again, earnestly.  “Play it, Alex.  Play ‘As Time Goes By’."  
     Alex looks panicked.  “I--I can't remember it, Mr. Charles.  I'm a little rusty on it.  
     “Then I'll hum it for you:  Da da dada da da…”

     “NO!”  Against his will, Alex almost snorts out a laugh, recalling Charles‘s utter inability to carry a tune.  “Please don’t!”  
     Charles gives him that soft little smile again.  “Then you’ll just have to sing it for me, Alex.  Before I start singing for you.”

     Still looking incredibly uncomfortable, but knowing when he’s been defeated, Alex finally plays the introduction to the song and sings:

_“You must remember this / A kiss is still a kiss / A sigh is just a sigh / The fundamental things apply / As time goes by. / And when two lovers woo, / They still say, "I love you" / On that you can rely / No matter what the future brings-...  
_

     Looking absolutely furious, Erik comes rushing out from his office and storms angrily over to the piano, yelling, “Alex! I thought I told you never to play-…”  His tirade abruptly ends and he pales when he suddenly looks up and sees Charles sitting at the table.  Looking terrified and miserable, Alex quickly jumps up and rolls the piano away, leaving Erik alone to stare into the soft, luminous blue eyes of the man who tore his heart out.

     “Hello, Erik.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
